


To Kindle A Glowing Spark

by morwrach



Series: A Prowl of Wampuses [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: A little bit of wizarding politics!, Credence showing off his talent for magic!, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, For an auror Tina Goldstein is shockingly unobservant, Happy Ending, M/M, Magical memos!, Mutual recovery struggles, Post-Canon Fix-It, Setting: MACUSA, Workaholic Percival Graves, protective percival graves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 03:46:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9698318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwrach/pseuds/morwrach
Summary: MACUSA runs on hot gossip, and the presence of Director Graves' rumoured lover in the Wand Permit Department is fuelling the fire.Standalone, but could be considered a sequel of sorts toThe Beast Beneath The Skin.





	

**Author's Note:**

> If you fancy a little musical accompaniment, my soundtrack for this piece was [Rumer's cover of The Carpenters' Close To You](https://youtu.be/LxwoK5pYM48) & [Chopin's Nocturnes](https://youtu.be/liTSRH4fix4) :)

An untamed easterly wind has broken from its sky-forged chains. It howls through Lower Manhattan, turning the pages of Bibles propped on hardwood pews in St Paul’s Chapel, and chasing idle pedestrians along Broadway with discarded detritus from the gutters. Newspapers flap their pages like wings, and mountains of carefully swept leaves affect the appearance of west-coast tornadoes. With the smallest gesture of its force the East wind casts a chatter of drab pigeons into flight, evicting them from their warm stony nooks among the eaves of City Hall. Icy rain plays a percussive melody against the glass of skyscraper windows, swept this way and that at the whim of the wind. A fistful of rain and cold air arcs into the porch of the Woolworth Building, cascading into the figure of Credence Barebone huddling from the inclement weather.  
  
Startled, he reaches to wipe the droplets of cold water away from his already sore and wind-bitten cheeks, fingertips running over the raised semi-circles of scars on his jaw which always feel reassuringly mild in freezing weather. His bright eyes watch the rain darkening the light stone of the building, painting the clothes of the little stone figures in the decorative niches in funereal tones. He laughs lightly to himself as the smallest fleck of moisture hits the carved nose of Carlos Lopez, giving the stern wizard the appearance of a vaudeville regular. Mr Graves had stood with him in front of MACUSA’s glowing main doors a few months earlier, an arm around his shoulder as he pointed out each of the twelve founders in turn. His face had broken into a sardonic smile as Credence’s eyes widened exponentially at the name Gondalphus Graves. At the thought of Graves, he turns to check the clock just visible through the glass of the door, fogged up from the rain; and subconsciously brings his thumb to his mouth to chew at his raw cuticles.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Tina can just about see the figure Graves has sent her to talk to, a dark blur through the misted glass of the entrance hall, and as she presses her hand to the cold metal of the revolving door, she realises that, of course it’s Credence waiting patiently out there in the lashing downpour. He’s standing in the shaded alcove of the doorway, rocking back and forth gently on the balls of his feet. Tina’s eyes trace over his open, bright face as she pushes through the door. His hair’s longer now, falling in soft black curls and ripples over his forehead and along the sides of his face. He’s wearing his old hat from the Second Salemites, a sad old thing, worn grey with afternoons handing leaflets in snow and freezing rain, starched and ironed and reshaped time after time. Her first few glimpses of Credence’s face, almost a year ago to the day, had been sought out from under the shade of its brim as he stood handing out leaflets. It’s sat on the back of his head now, its black brim circling his head, an affectation reminiscent of the tall pointy hats which no-majs are convinced they all wear.  
  
_“Hey Tina!...Ms Goldstein!”_  
  
She’s broken out of her idle thoughts by Credence’s greeting. He’s beaming at the sight of her even though he saw her and Queenie less than a week ago. His hard-won happiness is infectious, radiant, and she’s already returning his smile despite the bad mood she’s been in all day.  
  
_“Hello Credence, have you been out here long?”_ she asks, concerned.  
  
There are droplets of water in his hair like little pearls, and he shivers intermittently. She's relieved that he’s wearing a dark wool overcoat, which nestles around him like the wings of an owl. It’s too big for him by far, even accounting for the weight she’s relieved to see that he’s put on since living with Graves.    
  
_“Oh, not long, no. I’m just wet ‘cause I walked.”_  
  
_“Ah”_ she recalls his habitual queasiness when stepping out of the fireplace of their apartment, the way she’s seen Graves take his elbow and steady him before apparating them both.  
  
_“I have a note here from Director Graves,”_ she admits, producing the folded piece of parchment from her pocket, and proffering it to him. _“He sent me down to give it to you.”_  
  
She doesn’t add that Graves gritted out the command “ _Goldstein, take this down to the front door,"_ during a small interlude in a meeting of the Magical Law Enforcement Department. She’d opened her mouth to question, but Graves’ expression of tense desperation had made her reach out, take the scrawled note quickly, and push it down into the pocket of her suit jacket. He’d dismissed her with a short flick of his hand, but the thankful relief on his face had been plain.  
  
_“Oh”_ Credence sighs out, pressing his lips together, “ _Percy isn’t coming.”_ _Percy._  
  
He casts his face down to look at his shoes, fingers still clutching the note, and Tina can see again the nervous young man of a year ago, lost and confused. She aches to take his cares away again.  
  
_“Thank-you for coming to find me Tina.”_ Credence says quietly, _“I’d best be off now.”_  
  
He turns to leave, hesitating when a clap of thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance. At that moment, Credence’s stomach growls in unison with the thunder, and he wraps an embarrassed arm around his body.  
  
It dawns on her, slowly. _“Does Mr Graves take you to lunch every day?_ ”  
  
He nods, mutely.  
__  
"Well, I think in that case - lunch is on me today!” she announces brightly, and Credence seems to relax. The rain pours down harder than ever, and she manages to coax him inside with the offer to wait out the storm in the Wand Permit Office with hot tea.  
  
_“We can send a note up to Mr Graves”_ she adds, hopefully, and that seems to clinch it.  
  
He takes off his hat and holds it neatly against his chest as soon as they step through the main doors, ever the image of polite social graces. He’s still so restrained, and cautious in his movements - his arms by his sides, and his face set in a blank expression – even as his shoes squeak wetly on the marble floors. The entrance hall is flocked with people, a trio of aurors push and shove, a struggling middle-aged witch with a face crinkled as a dried cranberry held between them, sleek suited assistants bluster past with stacks of signed and sealed orders destined for the roosts of the Central Post Owlery, and a small house elf in miniature MACUSA orderly robes polishes the Salem Memorial with Brass-o! A cluster of secretarial staff drinking hot pumpkin coffee chitter and chatter together about office gossip. As Tina and Credence pass them, they turn to look at Credence inquisitively. _“It’s definitely him,”_ she overhears as they pass, and winces, ushering them away from the pressing crowds in the main hall and into the elevator.  
  
Red, the dwarf lift attendant, lounges against the golden lift handle, gnawing on chewing tobacco. Consequently, the elevator smells of a bitter combination of nicotine and mint. He looks as grouchy as ever at the prospect of having to do his job, but Tina suspects that he looks less squinty than usual when he sees who it is. She feels a small glow of pride at the thought that she’s finally earned his respect.  
  
_“Auror Goldstein,”_ he drawls curmudgeonly in his nasal New York-accented voice.  
  
_“Good Afternoon, Red.”_ She gestures to Credence, _“This is - ”_  
  
_“Mr Barebone,”_ the dwarf pipes up, _“Goin’ up to Major Investigations today, Sir?”_  
  
Tina has never heard Red call anyone Sir. She begins to realise that Red’s improved mood has very little to do with her presence.  
  
_“N-No thanks Red”_ murmurs Credence, lightly shaking his downcast head.  
  
_“Down to the Typing Pool, please Red,”_ cuts in Tina.  
  
The dwarf makes a sound of assent, and begins to turn the handle. With a clank and a clunk, and they begin to descend smoothly and soundlessly. Tina looks towards Credence as the elevator flickers between bands of light and dark as they move between floors, and she can see a blush rising on Credence’s cheeks, but there’s a little smile pulling at the edges of his mouth too.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The Macusa Typing Pool is hushed, a welcome relief after the intense hubbub of the main hall. That’s not to say it isn’t full of little noises, little stories – the scrape of chair legs, the flutter of papers like birds’ wing beats, the regular thudding clitter-clatter of typewriter keys, the rasp of a quill nib, and the somewhere distantly the whistle of a kettle boiling as Hucky, the Refreshment Trolley Elf prepares trays of tea. The office is dark and Tina sneezes at the permanent dust and scent of damp which pervades the place. Every single day working here feels like an eternity of boredom, and she’s desperately counting down the two weeks left before she returns to the clean, open, airy spaces of Major Investigations. Next to her, Credence is gazing around wide-eyed, like the office she detests is the glittering cavern of the forty thieves from Syrian wizarding legends. He reaches up to touch the bronze surface of the pipes which cover the ceilings– it’s not a long reach, considering how low the ceilings are – and is surprised to find that the pipes are warm to the touch, like a radiator. He drags his fingertips over the tops of filing cabinets, and stops to read the motivational notices “You curse it, you cure it!,” smiling without a trace of shame for being so enthralled by the habitual, the everyday, the dreary.  
  
He insists on immediately sending Graves a note, earnestly insisting that it cannot wait. She passes him a quill and a Memorandum Rodentium, and busies herself with reorganising her in-tray as he painstakingly writes his message, bottom lip sucked between his teeth. He watches intently as the little slip of paper folds itself magically into a little rat and bounds off into the mouth of the brass pipe resting on the desk.  
  
They are sitting together eating sandwiches from the refreshments trolley (one warmed pastrami on rye, and one sad, leftover sardolive), whilst Tina explains how wand permits support MACUSA’s vow to protect the wizarding community when Graves’ reply arrives. It’s heralded by a low rumbling, like the sound of a distant train, echoing throughout the office. The unusual noise attracts the attention of the clerks working at the desks either side of Tina’s who turn in their chairs to look up at the ceiling. Even Bea, normally disinterested in office gossip, gazes over her copy of _The American Witch_ , and quirks one perfect arched brow. All at once, a little rodent memo comes scurrying out along the polished surface of the desk, pursued shortly after by a lithe, muscular creature of folded black paper.  
  
_“What in the wide wizarding world?!”_ exclaims Bodruggan Swan, passing by with his usual mound of incorrectly sorted paperwork.  
  
The collected permit officers, by now encamped uninvited around Tina’s desk, gasp as the wampus prowls forward, pounces, and catches the rodent between its jaws, where it struggles helplessly. The creature pads softly across to Credence and sits in front of him on the desk, tail flicking. When it bows its head and presents the memo, Credence is beside himself with delight. He reaches out a timid hand to stroke the creature’s folded paper back. At the touch, it unfolds with a growl, filling the air with the smell of sandalwood. Out of the corner of her eye, Tina can read _“Credence, sweetheart”_ in Graves’ distinctive writing, and she feels a warmth bloom in her chest. She’s long suspected that their connection was other than strictly formal, although Queenie had infuriatingly refused to confirm or deny her deductions. She’d fixed her sister with an unusually serious expression, flipped her honey curls and pronounced _“it’s not my place, Teenie, and I doubt Mr Graves would appreciate it either. You know how private he is.”_ Next to her, Credence is pressing his face close to the paper’s surface, devouring the note avidly. The witches grouped around the pair are murmuring to each other exuberantly, craning their necks. Hermes Jackson braces his hand on Tina’s perfectly stacked case files, and leans forward, and that does it. Tina shoots her colleagues a hard look and raises her wand hand, and they reluctantly slink away back to their own posts.  
  
She turns back to Credence, who looks discomforted by all the attention, although he brightens a little when she tells him that Mr Graves has never sent anyone a memo, and no-one even knew that it was possible to craft memos into other animals. He presses the black paper affectionately to his chest with one hand, proffering the little memo note, the wampus’ unfortunate prey with the other.  
  
_“It’s for you, from Mr Graves,”_ he adds.  
  
She takes it from him light-heartedly enough, but reading the note she instantly feels sick to the stomach. In Graves’ habitually formal tone, it blandly reads: _“Goldstein. Issue Credence a Wand Permit. It’s long overdue. Credence’s wand registration number and corresponding runes follow.”_ She rereads it again, once, twice, lets the knowledge settle in. Credence has a wand. In direct violation of a ruling from the President and the International Federation, Graves has bought Credence a wand. She swallows hard, and is aware of Credence’s worried gaze over her shoulder, and his sharp little intakes of breath.  
  
_“Credence, do you-”_ she hesitates, careful to keep her tone light _“have a wand?”_  
  
He reaches into the pocket of his coat, hung on the back of his seat, and draws it out slowly, presenting it to her on the palm of one of his pale hands. It’s a long elegant wand carved from warm-brown Applewood, the gentlest of wand woods, and has the merest suggestion of a handle. It’s such an unassuming thing. It’s hard to credit that such a humble-looking object could cause so much disaster within MACUSA, and could mean imprisonment or even execution for Credence and Graves, and perhaps even her, if she processes the permit. Her mind is an agony of contradicting impulses as she looks up from the wand to its bearer’s face. Credence looks like he wants to bolt, and the distrust in his wide glassy eyes sears a cold pain through her chest.  
  
_“Tina,”_ he asks, voice wobbling, _“are you going to take it away?”_  
  
Seeing cold fear replace his soft gentle wonder reminds her of the Inquiry, a mere five months prior, and she can feel the hot press of tears in her eyes. In her mind’s eye she can see Credence standing in the wooden interrogation box set in the centre of the pentagram floor. He’s a shadow of the Credence who now sits next to her - shaking, chewing on his bleeding chapped lips, his head downcast. He was so much thinner back then, and paler too. He made a pitiable sight cowered in the box, flanked by two leather-clad aurors. Both had their wands aimed pointedly at Credence – every involuntary spasm or chilled shudder provoked them to lunge, as if expecting him to explode into a raging black wave at any given moment. He’d managed to control the obscurus, croaked out small answers to direct questions, picked at his nailbeds, and had occasionally shot quick desperate glances at Tina. He’d been hunched over even more than she thought possible, and the hundreds of wizards and witches filling the chamber had loomed over him from their tiered seats. The chilly Pentagram Chamber was packed with MACUSA officials, the entirety of the International Wizarding Convention, and a gaggle of reporters from the New York Ghost whose pleas for _“transparency in this time of fear”_ had  finally been satisfied. Like the sun in the centre of the room, Seraphina Picquery held sway over debate with a confident assurance of control which was nothing less than majestic. Around her sat hundreds of wizards in their finery, lapels glittering with medals, and yet it seemed that none of them could deign to treat Credence as a human, to have pity, even as he sat shaking, his clothes stained and old and patched over and over.  
  
Kindness it seemed, had been in short supply that December. Debate had raged on for hours around Credence’s culpability, about whether he was still working with Grindelwald, and once President Picquery had shut down these accusations of involvement, a flurry of English, Italian, and African diplomats had asked _“What of his magic? What of his education?”_ One French wizard with a particularly sonorous voice had suggested that Credence be obliviated – _“he is more beast than wizard! Obliviation would be a preventative measure, a sensible measure!”_ A number of others hummed in agreement, a few among them suggesting that forgetfulness might be a kindness. At the thought of this, Credence had looked utterly bereft. Brought into the magical world with kindness and promises and affection, he’d been saved from the hardness and pain of Mary Lou and the New Salemites, only to be betrayed, and now it seemed that for all Tina and Queenie and Newt’s gentle assurances, he was about to be forever banned from this new world too.  
  
_“In accordance with Ruling 341C,”_ the clear crystalline voice of Florrie Device had called out, crushing the swell of chittering voices, “ _Mr Barebone should pay for his crimes against the wizarding community and his irreparable contravention of Rappaport’s Law with his life.”_ From somewhere within the crowd had come cheering, inciting a riot of layered voices.  
  
Graves’ voice had broken through the melee, his booming tones gravelly. _“Enough.”_  
  
There had been silence in the wake of the word, rent apart by a single choked sob from Credence.        
  
_“You sound like Grindelwald, the lot of you”_ spat Graves. The attention of the room was finally held. As a war hero, the Director, a survivor of Grindelwald’s torture, and a descendent of the Original Twelve, Graves’ opinion was trusted, and respected, and to no small degree, feared.  
  
He’d gestured abortively with a heavily bandaged hand for complete silence, but the command of the room was already his. His suffering at Grindelwald’s hands had been writ large over his face and neck, a rainbow of bruising in bloodied purples, sunflower yellows, greens and murky browns. Even after treatment from the best mediwizards and healing salves, it was evident where he’d been broken – angry cuts across his cheek, caked with dried blood, and wand arm in a sling. His left eye was still partially swollen closed, but the injury did nothing to soften his thunderous expression and the embers of anger burning in his dark eyes.  
  
_“Permission to have Barebone removed from the chamber,”_ he’d growled out, a command rather than a question, and amid the heckles of the press, the President pronounced _“permission granted.”_ With a grateful look from beneath his lowered lashes, Credence had been dragged from the room between two aurors, limbs weak and wobbling.  
  
Days later, the resolution had been signed by Graves and Credence and the President, and witnessed by Wizarding Diplomats from every continent. Graves had vowed take Credence in, and fulfil the role of guardian, a clause which Graves had fought for with an untamed ferocity which had surprised even Seraphina. He had been tasked with the responsibility of ensuring that Credence continued to repress the obscurus; but both the President and the International Wizarding Convention had in agreement that Credence could not possibly be allowed to learn magic of any kind – creative, defensive, and certainly not offensive.  
  
_“An obscurial,”_ Seraphina had explained to Graves, _“is an unknown quantity, and cannot possibly be granted the full liberties of a wizarding citizen.”_  
  
Both knowledge and practice of magic was forbidden to Credence – and physical contact with any wand or items made from wand wood or materials used to make wand cores was prohibited. Tina had counted at least fifteen pages of small print. She remembers seeing Graves jaw clench as he signed the form, and she wonders now if he had resolved then to break his word. She thinks of Graves’ look of tenderness as he’d passed the quill into Credence’s shaking hands, and the look of fragile trust which had passed between them. She cannot bring herself to break that trust now.    
  
_“Come on,”_ she says with a brave smile, clapping Credence on the shoulder. _“Let’s go issue this permit.”_  
  
  
***  
  
  
_“So, you just point your wand at the glass, and say “saepe incantantem” and your most used spells will get caught in the sphere for a while, so we can record them on the form.”_ At her side, Credence nods.  The sphere in question looks uncannily like a no-maj globe of the world, mounted on a tall brass stand, except that instead of a world map, there’s an empty glass sphere.  
  
He takes a deep breath, his dark eyes flutter closed. He stretches out his right arm, his applewood wand held delicately in his grasp, an extension of the line of his arm and shoulder. In one smooth movement, he sweeps his left arm behind his body in a smooth arc, resting the back of his hand against the small of his back. With a step one pace forward, Credence rests the tip of the wand on the sphere’s shiny surface. It’s a textbook-perfect duelling stance, descended from a historical casting stance, and it transforms Credence. The gangly, awkward young man is gone: his limbs are elegant, his pose graceful. His back is straight, and Tina realises that he is far taller than she’s realised, taller even than Graves. He opens his eyes gently, and his face seems to glow, moon-like, with saturnine calm. With his chin raised, there is something noble to his countenance. She marvels at the change to the timid young man she knows well -  his casting pose has all of Graves’ poised, practiced tradition, but none of his feral rage or his impatience. She wonders how long it has taken to teach Credence such skill, but struggles to imagine Graves tutoring him. The Graves she knows and admires is a man of barely restrained passions, insistence, intolerance, barked commands, and reluctant praise. An excellent Director, but hardly one for caring. Considering the Credence in front of her, she considers that she has been wrong about Graves for years.  
  
_“saepe incantantem”_  
  
When Credence speaks the words of the spell his voice is strong and unwavering, each syllable balanced, and with a flick of his wrist and a dip of the fingertips, spells are weaving and whirling around inside the sphere. A slow, feline smile spreads across his face, and Tina feels a glow of pride. He presses his nose against the glass, childlike, and Tina rests a hand on his shoulder as she watches the display. For once, he doesn’t start at the contact, just hums happily. The spells wheel around the sphere, dancing, chasing each other in bursts and trails of light. A stream of flower petals glides by, made into a garland by the air: a warm blush of roses, a blue flurry of forget-me-nots, and interspersed between the two, tiny white blossoms like handfuls of crushed snow.  
  
_“Orchideous!”_ Tina says with happy surprise.  
  
_“I use that one all the time!”_ Credence grins, and then adds proudly _“Percy says I’m rather good!”_  
  
An arc of blue flame spins elegantly in the wake of the flowers, licking at the sides of the bowl with cold tendrils.  
_“That’s bluebell flames!”_ Credence says eagerly, _“though I don’t know it’s spell name.”_  
_“You don’t know it?”_ she asks inquisitively, writing down caerula flammaris. He shakes his head, _“it just sort of comes when I think of it.”_   _Incredible,_ Tina thinks.  
  
A clean white spark bounces from side to side, clearly recognisable as _fi_ _nite incantantem_ , the standard counter-spell, before it is suddenly concealed from view by a burst of thick grey smoke, which fills the entire sphere, boiling and roiling.  
  
_“Fumos?”_ she asks Credence, carefully.  
  
He nods. _“Percy - Mr Graves thought it might be useful if I ever need to conceal the obscurus.”_  
  
She hums thoughtfully, and neatly writes both spells down on the form. Graves has clearly been prioritising defensive charms and evasive manoeuvres; and though they may soon be thrown into a wizarding war, curiously none of the spells in the globe are for fighting. She wonders who Graves intends the spells to evade, and then thinks of the crowds of aurors who had hospitalised her timid friend in the subway, and considers that she already knows the answer to that question.  
  
As the smoke dissipates, a last spell is visible at the bottom of the sphere. It’s tiny white line, slowly knotting and unknotting itself in a gentle motion – episkey, the charm to heal small injuries.  
  
_“It’s the first type of magic I ever saw Mr Graves perform,”_ confides Credence in a hushed voice, _“He used it to heal my hands.”_  
  
Tina’s heart does a little leap of bittersweet happiness. She remembers Credence’s ugly scarred palms, and feels terribly sad, but he doesn’t notice her face fall. He’s too busy rearranging himself into the casting stance again, before he asks _“Do we have to include wandless spells?”_  
  
All protocol forgotten, Tina finds herself asking incredulously  _“You can do wandless magic, Credence?”_  
  
He closes his palm, and then gestures like an orchestra conductor, opening his fingers at the end of the stroke. Bright purple sparks light up the air around them, making snapping and banging noises like no-maj firecrackers. They disappear in puffs of pink smoke, leaving the warm smell of bonfires. Purple light reflects off the pipes above, playing across Credence’s ecstatic face. He’s beaming with pride and slightly sweating with exertion, a lock of hair falling into his eyes. A cluster of permit witches and wizards are gathering around them, but she can’t find it within herself to care. Tina finds herself laughing, clasping Credence’s upper arms, delighted, the regulation hush of the Department forgotten.  
  
  
***  
  
  
As soon as the timekeeper on his desk chimes 5pm, Graves is slamming his office door behind him and shouldering past unimpressed aurors to the elevator. He slips soundlessly into the darkened hush of the Wand Permit Office, and weaves stealthily through the labyrinth of dusty filing cabinets. A spark of joyful euphoria scorches within him as he catches sight of Credence, and he pauses, gazing in open adoration. How can he have missed the sight of the boy so much in a mere handful of hours?  
  
Credence is sitting behind Goldstein’s desk with his long lanky legs tucked up around him, a soft frown across his brow as he carefully fills out a form with a regulation green quill delicately held in ink stained fingers. Credence’s unruly midnight hair is tucked behind his ears, and Graves’ gaze traces a curl down to the pale neck he so loves to kiss. He smothers a huff of laughter when he notices that Credence is wearing one of his old shirts, the one with the wonkily embroidered Graves family crest over the heart. _“So much for subtlety!”_ his inner voice cries out, but he can’t even make his private protestations sound convincing. He has bought Credence all the current fashions, and his wardrobe bursts with formal velvet robes, fine shirts, silk scarves. The younger man could be the very image of a New York swell, and yet he opts to wear Graves’ old sweaters and shirts and waistcoats unearthed from the ancient trunk above his bed as _“a temporary solution.”_ It’s quite endearing really.  
  
Tina is sitting next to Credence folding Wand Permits into slim envelopes, and talking quietly to two clerks leaning on the filing cabinets next to her desk. Graves screws up his face trying to remember their names. A portly man with a beard and glasses – Balbriggan Goose?, and next to him a young black witch with vampish style, definitely Beatrice Toomer. They’re chatting amicably to Tina, but Graves can’t help noticing both clerks sneaking glances across at Credence. He can hardly blame them. Who could fail to be charmed by Credence? wonders Graves, covetously. Only fools.  
  
He feels terribly proud all of a sudden, and terribly, frighteningly defenceless, which has become an uncomfortably familiar feeling recently. Mercy Lewis, how he wants to stride over there and press Credence into his chest, to lay heavy kisses upon his black, black hair, to suffuse him with sweet nothings and promises. Graves has never been a possessive man, an ambitious man yes, but never possessive; but a panicked urgency in his chest makes him want to shout at the wand permit clerks _“He's mine, only mine. Beautifully, wondrously mine.”_  
  
_“Percy!”_  
  
Graves’ internal struggle is interrupted by a joyous cry from Credence whose face is lit up with the biggest smile he’s ever seen. _Lumos maxima_ , Graves thinks to himself playfully, before cringing as fifteen years of professional silence regarding his private life and his sexuality crumble down around him. Credence rushes over, tripping on a tottering pile of files and folders in the process; and presses a tiny impulsive kiss to Graves’ stubbled cheek. It’s just a whisper of lips, an _“I missed you,”_ and Graves feels like every single pair of eyes in the entire office is fixed on them both. He risks a glance – Tina offers him a warm, awkward smile, and the two clerks next to her both look forlorn, and slightly ill at ease. The inappropriateness of the situation hits Graves with an unexpected fit of laughter, which he only just manages to repress into a smug huff before clearing his throat and growling _“Don’t you people have work to do?”_ Credence, ever the mischievous creature, giggles into his neck.  
  
  
Sighing, Graves fishes Credence’s hat off the coat stand, and places it firmly on the younger man’s head. He tilts it slowly back into Credence’s preferred style, and brushes his dark fringe out of his eyes, wide and lovely.  
_“There,”_ he say softly, _“a very handsome young gentleman.”_  
 He’s breaking his own vow of self-restraint at work, but Credence is bubbling with joy and his eyes are shining. He’s so responsive to every little bit of affection, just as he was during their first interactions in the alley.  
  
Goldstein appears at his elbow with Credence’s coat draped over her arm, and Graves is relieved to see that she looks completely unsurprised and non-judgemental. He’s always liked Goldstein, he tells himself, both Goldsteins in fact. As Credence shimmies into his coat and goes to fetch his scarf, Tina holds out a slim powder-blue envelope.  
  
_“Here’s Credence’s Wand Permit,”_ she says firmly, _“I’ve sent a copy to the Wand Archive to be processed and stored._ ”  
  
_“Thank you,”_ Graves hesitates, _“Porpentina.”_  
  
_“Sir.”_  
  
_“Whilst you are undeniably an asset to the Wand Permit Office,”_ he adds sombrely, _“I look forward to your return to Major Investigations.”_  
  
Since it’s apparently a day for breaking his own rules, Graves even manages a smile before he places a hand on the small of Credence’s back and guides him home, away from prying eyes. __  
  
  



End file.
